


of earth we make loam

by sinisterhand



Category: Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead - Stoppard
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gravediggers, Existentialism, Gen, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 14:06:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19210978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinisterhand/pseuds/sinisterhand
Summary: Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are gravediggers just doing their best. It's dark.





	of earth we make loam

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the “dead in a box” conversation in “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead” but pretty quickly drifted away from it. Title is a quote from Hamlet. Sorry, Tom Stoppard. Unbetaed, so if you see anything, please tell me. Constructive criticism welcomed.

 

Four feet down, he stops for the first time to wipe sweat from his face and question what he’s doing here. Rosencrantz can feel the shovel splintering through his gloves and there’s soil in his boots and his shoulders burn despite the early hour— Well. There’s a new moon and his watch has been broken for forever, but he hasn’t been on shift long. A sharp sound behind him sets him stumbling with fear, heart pounding out of his chest.

 

It’s only a man, clearing his throat. Rosencrantz squints at the shadowed figure, exactly the same height as him on even footing, and immediately remembers— it’s only Guildenstern, leaning on his matching, equally shitty shovel.

 

“Are you done daydreaming?” he demands, exasperated, shifting from foot to foot; it’s not so cold they can’t dig, but it’s certainly enough to make two men regret their career paths. Rosencrantz must have known that before, but now he feels the chill, numbing his fingers suddenly and thoroughly. Guildenstern continues with annoyance, “We have seven more graves to dig tonight, and I don’t want to freeze before we’re through with _one_.” Rosencrantz looks up and smiles.

 

“You know, it’s funny— for a second there, I couldn’t for the life of me remember who you were.” Guildenstern snorts, a little too loud for the conversation, somehow ill-suited for the open space of the graveyard.

 

“We’re the only two here. You know _I’m_ not you, because _you’re_ you, so I’ve got to be me, of course. Even someone as stupid as you shouldn’t have any trouble remembering _that._ ” When he puts it like that, it does seem obvious. Rosencrantz is glad he has Guildenstern to clear things up; he can’t imagine being alone on a night like this. In the dark a fellow might get all turned around and without someone else to straighten him out where would he be?

 

It _is_ rather dark. He can’t even read the name on the coffin Guildenstern is five minutes away from giving up and sitting on. It might start with a “P,” or an “O,” but it doesn’t matter. He keeps digging.

 

Two feet later, his companion has reached the end of his limited patience. He starts with grim muttering, then transitions into increasingly ineffectual attempts to fit more of his body inside his coat, fingers slipping on the buttons, then, agitated, kicks the coffin.

 

The impact sounds wrong to Rosencrantz in a way he struggles to pinpoint: loud in the still graveyard, echoing unnaturally far. The thin pine shudders under Guildenstern’s foot, reverberating like a bell, and he seems at once sheepish and afraid, frozen with a foot still inexplicably touching the coffin. They both stand still for a second, not daring to breathe, and Rosencrantz abruptly realizes what was wrong with the sound: it was empty. Not at all like a foot hitting a hundred plus pounds of dead meat, and more like a knock at a door.

 

“There’s no body.” Rosencrantz, breathing shallowly, takes a few seconds to realize that Guildenstern spoke and not himself. They both stand there a minute longer, petrified, stupid with fear like animals. It’s so dark, no moon out, the worst kind of night to be freezing your toes off with no one around for miles but yourself and five empty coffins.

 

“I guess there’s no point in digging any more, then,” Rosencrantz says, distantly, as Guildenstern pries the lid off the nearest casket. It’s only loosely nailed on, giving way under his bare hands, and looks as empty as it sounded. Rosencrantz drops his shovel and clambers out of the half-finished grave. He stands next to Guildenstern and claps a hand onto his shaking shoulders.

 

“We’ve been played for fools,” Guildenstern says, sounding distant and resigned. He’s pale and seems out of breath. “Given pointless instructions and set, like toy trains, on endless tracks. What are we supposed to _do_?” He shouts the last word, making Rosencrantz jump.

 

“Suppose… We were _told_ to dig graves,” he says uncertainly. Guildenstern laughs, a startled, humorless bark. “No, I didn’t think so,” Rosencrantz continues, a little sheepish. “We… There’s not a lot of options in a little dark box like this.”

 

Guildenstern laughs again, hoarse and bitter. “No,” he says. “There _isn’t_.” Rosencrantz shifts a little farther from him, uncomfortable with this new tack, but doesn’t take his arm from his shoulders.

 

“We could wait for the sun to come up,” he suggests. Guildenstern’s eyes dart strangely.

 

“How long would we have to wait?” he asks. Rosencrantz is struck by the realization that he has no idea how long it’s been night, what time it is, or even how long they’ve been in this graveyard. He can’t remember the last time he had a working watch or a moon to orient himself. He can’t see anything beyond the wavering circle of light cast by Guildenstern’s lantern, and indeed he has no idea if anything beyond exists. The total dark and the cyclical hours expand to fill as far as he can see or remember. Rosencrantz doesn’t say any of this out loud. Instead he turns to Guildenstern, “Does it count as daydreaming if it probably isn’t day?”

 

Guildenstern takes his hand, and that close he can see his white knuckles and feel his rapid heartbeat. “Tell you what,” he says to Rosencrantz, who closes his eyes. “I’ll make sure to tell you when the earth goes down far enough to see the sun, so you can get back to daydreaming.” His fingers twitch against Rosencrantz’s palm. It is very dark behind his eyelids. He counts the other man’s breaths until he loses count, and then keeps counting.

 

 


End file.
